


Imposter Syndrome

by chilope



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Biker AU, I'll add others as they come up, M/M, Multi, will probably add more characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-19 00:17:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5948842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chilope/pseuds/chilope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a small town in the middle of a desert in New Mexico, two rival gangs vie for power.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imposter Syndrome

The thundering of thirteen bike engines sounded their arrival like trumpets for a king. The asphalt shook and burned as they rode toward a town silhouetted against the sky, the only one for miles. Behind them they dragged a cloud of dust and the promise of trouble.

A gray-haired woman stepped out onto the small concrete step that separated her hobby shop from the sidewalk and glared toward the noise. “The Blues are back,” she said to the man at the next shop, a husky growl to her voice. 

“Hmph,” he responded, and walked back inside as the gang road up. They turned into a parking lot across the street, the one belonging to “Vic’s Pub and Starlight Room,” and one by one hushed the roaring of their engines. On the backs of their leather jackets was a blue emblem of an eagle crossed with two swords. One of them, a dark-skinned man with dreads and an easy smile, caught the old woman’s eye and cocked a smirk at her. She squinted her eyes at him and walked back inside. “Nice to see you again, Mrs. Martin!” he yelled, as she flipped him off with her back still turned. 

“Tucker!” one of the other men yelled. “Leave her alone, the last thing she needs is you bothering her.” He was holding his helmet in his hands, light blue paint only barely concealing the original soft grey underneath. 

“Whatever, Wash,” Tucker responded easily, tucking his aquamarine helmet onto the back of his bike. “That old bat needs something, that’s for sure.” 

The crew walked into the bar, into a crowd that seemed just a notch too quiet, the lack of glances and stares almost pointed. They sat around several tables, some of which had been filled right up until they noticed the boys walking toward them, and waited for Vic to come take their orders. 

The owner and bartender walked across the room with all the grace of a walrus and less than half the daunting. He was slight and greasy and gave the impression of too much time spent playing video games. He pointed a stubby finger at the bull mastiff laying on the ground near Caboose. “Heeeeey dude, how many times do I have to tell you that you can’t have dogs in here, man?” 

“Oh he isn’t dangerous, he just likes to be with me all the time!” Caboose spoke with urgency and absolute conviction, even as the dog bristled and began to bark loudly at one of the other patrons. 

“Heh, that’s wack, dude, I appreciate that, but seriously, we have a rule about pets, dude.” Vic pointed to a sign near the door that said “NO pets! Seriously. We have a rule about pets, dude” with a large red circle and line over a picture of a dog and cat. 

Wash cleared his throat and nodded at Caboose. “You should really take Freckles outside, he isn’t really a… Indoor dog… Why don’t you take him for a walk?” Caboose smiled and beckoned Freckles toward the door. The woman he had been growling it relaxed visibly in her seat and returned her attention to an enormous plate of nachos. 

It did not take long for the group to become dangerously intoxicated. Tucker had long since moved from away from the others to hit on various women, most of whom ignored him. Wash was half listening to the man next to him drunkenly explain how the government had put tiny microchips in all the money so that they could track everyone. “These microchips are so small,” he said, “they can fit them in almost anything. Even vaccines. That’s why I never get vaccinated!” Wash looked at him, startled, but at that moment loud folk music had suddenly started getting much closer and much louder. Wash gripped his drink and sat up straighter in his chair. Tucker stopped talking and turned slightly more toward the door. The rest of the gang seemed to tense, but none of them moved. 

Finally, the music turned off, and several moments later the door opened. Sarge walked inside, his footsteps heavy and purposeful. Behind him were Grif, enormous in a fringed cowboy jacket, and Simmons, tall and slight and covered in mean-looking scars. The rest of the Reds filed in slowly, all clad in leather and varying levels of large and intimidating. The Blues stood and the sound of cracking knuckles filled the small tavern. The place was nearly empty besides the two gangs; at some point, the other patrons had quietly taken their leave. Vic stood behind the bar, casting nervous glances between Sarge and Wash. 

Sarge spoke first. “Heard you dirty blues were back in town.”

“We don’t want any trouble,” Wash responded. 

Tucker walked forward to stand next to Wash. “Like hell we don’t! Get out of our bar!”

Sarge bristled, “Your…?! Why you filthy-!” He grabbed the shotgun that had been slung across his back and pointed it at Tucker. “This ain’t your bar!” 

Vic’s hand wrapped around the barrel of the gun, shoving the point toward the floor. “Woah dudes, chill out, this is actually my bar.” He pointed to a sign near the door that read “This is actually Vic’s bar,” and then turned to Wash. “I think maybe it’s time for everyone to leave for the night. Okay? Right on, dudes. Good night.” He walked over to the door and held it open, but no one moved. Tucker and Sarge were staring at each other, fists clenched, Sarge with his right hand still gripping the shotgun. 

“I think he’s right guys,” Wash said, breaking the tense silence. “I think we’ve had enough to drink, let’s get going.” The blues began to move toward the door, the reds moving aside to let them through while baring their teeth and cracking their knuckles. “You too, boys,” Vic’s voice chimed, urging the reds out the door. 

Grif nodded in Wash’s direction, smirking. “That’s right, asshole, we own this place. Better get on home to your mo-“ He was cut off suddenly by Tucker smashing into him head-on. Even though Grif was much larger than him, his momentum knocked the bigger man to the ground. He buried his fists in Grif’s stomach and chest, and pounded down on his face, as the other reds attempted to pull him off of Grif, who was whimpering and thrashing his arms around wildly. The reds were obstructed by the blues, who began throwing themselves into the throng, pulling hair and biting. Their yells were intermingled with the sound of Freckles’ barking, who had returned finally with Caboose. And then a shotgun fired. 

Everyone stopped and looked around for a body, but instead saw Sarge standing off to the side with his gun pointed straight up in the air. “Damnit Grif!” he yelled. “That’s just like you, to take a damn nap during a fight!” Grif sat up, blood pouring off of his face and into his lap. He had a bruise already beginning to form on his cheekbone and his nose was likely broken. He narrowed his eyes at Sarge, clearly stung by the accusation. 

“Um,” Wash began. “It’s time to leave now.” The blues looked at him, some almost scornfully, and then walked toward their bikes. Tucker brushed past his forcefully, whispering “you’re welcome” as he did so. Wash put his painted helmet back on and glanced across the street to the hobby shop. Mrs. Martin was standing in the doorway watching him and shaking her head. He started his bike, the sound of the engine barely drowning out the pounding of his heart. 

The asphalt was cold now, the sun having already gone down, and Wash, Tucker, and Caboose were alone. They lived much farther from the town than any of the other blues, in a trailer park next to a drive-in movie theater. Freckles sat in the sidecar of Caboose’s bike, his tongue lolling in the wind. 

The sign denoting the entrance to Outpost Alpha Trailer Park had burned out again, but the lights from drive-in, the only lights in the vast New Mexico desert for several miles, were bright enough to guide them in. Wash parked his bike outside his home, looking forward to some peace and quiet with his cats. As he gathered his bag and helmet, Tucker marched over across the gravel driveway, his helmet held loosely at his side. 

“That sucked, dude,” he spat. “Would it kill you to back me up once in a while?” 

“What the hell are you talking about?” Wash responded, taken aback but not entirely unsurprised by Tucker’s tone. 

“Oh, I don’t know, just the fact that you never fucking finish anything!” 

“What exactly did you expect me to do?! You know Sarge is crazy! If I hadn’t gotten us out of there he would have killed someone!” Wash stood up as straight as he could, determined to stand his ground. 

Tucker laughed humorlessly. “You’re right, who cares if everyone in town thinks that we’re weak. At least Church didn’t run away from fights or make us go on stupid road trips. And he had my back! You’re the worst leader we’ve ever had.” Tucker turned and walked back toward his own home next door, stopping only to kick a rock violently toward the empty house across the street from Wash with a “For Sale” sign out front. 

Wash stood, trying to think of something to say until he heard Tucker’s door slam. He turned back to his door and began opening it, but glanced back at Caboose, standing in his own driveway next to the empty house, his hand securely gripping Freckles’ collar. He was staring at Wash, his eyes wide. Wash moved his hand upward in an attempt to wave, but couldn’t quite finish the gesture and instead continued through the door.


End file.
